


White and Gold

by Kit_SummerIsle



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Angst, Biting, Canon-Typical Violence, Lost Light, M/M, MTMTE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 10:05:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15579528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kit_SummerIsle/pseuds/Kit_SummerIsle
Summary: Sunstreaker on the Lost Light. So is Drift. Then stuff happen. You know... stuff.





	White and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> I'm ignoring a lot of canon for this, so it is almost completely AU aside from their selves. I just wanted to see how they would behave when thrown together.

White and gold circle each other. Like refined precision, the reflection of the lights slides on the razor edge of short blades on one side. Impulsive, feral force makes the other set tremble as the follow and shadow the small movements. The blades are as different as their owners. Short and straight with elegant runes running across the flat metal on one side… but their message is not lost on their opponent either, whose narrowed, ice-blue optics flash across the runes, grunts appreciatively at both the message and the aesthetics. His own blades are completely unadorned, those short, curved, wicked thorns of brute force that he wields so effectively, so deadly, he is famous for it not just among the Autobots, but the Decepticons he had killed as well. He is all for aesthetics, yet still, his blades are not reflecting the perfection of his frame, the mirror-bright polish that makes gold gleam like the sun he is named after. In this, he concedes with a grunt, deflecting a tentative, probing move, his opponent is the same. White and black, red in small measures, a tiny bit of gold here and there… all gleam with the soft perfection of an expensive wax, polished and pure, not a chip or a dent allowed to mar perfection…

… the frame that is similar, yet it is not, that is slender and flexible, bringing up bitter memories of a red one that was similar, that he’d rather forget… he moves inside a thrust and uses his sturdier frame to push the other aside… but he meets with the other short, straight sword sliding, carving , biting into his armour – his sudden countermove was anticipated and it is as strange as it is rare. He doesn’t think – he never does in a combat, it is his greatest disadvantage as well as his forte – as he brings down the handle of his blade on the white wrist assembly, they are far too close to bring anything else in play, grunts as it connects and the force translates back into his servo, but it works and the black servo momentarily weakened, the sword shrieks as it slides off of his armour and the white frame suddenly, unexpectedly, impossibly fast dances away like he is a ghost…

… not a ghost, ghosts don’t leave burning marks like that and he shakes his helm, snarls and moves after it. He hates to be taunted, he hates to be toyed with, he hates that refined precision instinctly, yes, it also reminds him of somemech, somemech else, who was blue and who looked down at him from those blue optics, disdaining, sneering without moving a single facial actuator… he has to parry again and again as his opponent doesn’t let him to press his momentary advantage, the refined, precise slashes jar his blades and yes, he concedes, there is force behind them, it is not just empty, pretty form like Mirage used to do, they are real, solid blows and he appreciates it even as he grunts when parrying one…

… it feels like living, it feels like real, it feels more real than for a long time – and he is grateful for the white mech for not pulling any punches, for knowing that he could do that, for knowing that he prefers it real, prefers even the injury to the mockery of what most mech would call practice and safe. He practices the same way as he fights and his opponent honors that, _honours_ it, like the glyphs on his blade say it, it is at least not an empty idea, it is real. He is stronger than the white mech, pushing him back slowly, but surely, but the other is more flexible, faster, creative too, which again makes seeing him in red for a fleeting nanoklik… they are evenly matched, which is good, it is rare for him to have an opponent able to match him in practice and not even wanting to kill him on the spot either. 

_Faith_ , another set of glyphs flash across a blade and he snorts. It’s been awhile since he had faith in pretty much anything. He lives orn by orn, he fights klik by klik, and each is as new as it is old… it makes him unpredictable, makes his opponent’s cultured, practiced moves falter and fail… but not this one, not yet anyway, he still counters each random slash and punch with something that looks equally random – but the gold mech knows instinctly that it is not. There is fire simmering beneath the white flashes, something hot and fiery, something dark and sinister… but his moves show none of that inner turmoil. He is deadly grace, whereas Sunstreaker is just plain deadly. 

Still, they match. There is just enough of that inner chaos filtering through the practiced, cultured, _learned_ moves that he can not only counter his randomly deadly attacks but get ahead sometimes. They don’t dance, Sunstreaker snarls inwardly, not like how so many mechs describe fights – a bout is a serious affair, it is not about looks and styles, it is about metal shrieking and energon splashing, it is hydraulics groaning and actuators whine, it is an effort, a sweaty, energon-stained, oil-slicked effort that has nothing to do with something as refined, elegant and artistic as a dance. Still, their conjoined frames, their arms of metal and blades that connect and push and pull back and forth, sidewise and inside and every which way… it might even look as a strange dance from the outside. A macabre one, for sure. 

Not that they have an audience, no. Neither of them want one and by silent agreement the training room is locked and it helps sometimes to be an officer, because Sunstreaker knows by the first drops of energon that splashes to the mat that someone should have already broken their solitude, someone with authority to stop them – it has always gone that way, and he appreciates that for once his opponent doesn’t mind the wounds, the marks, the damage and his codes are keeping most, if not all of the crew outside. Somemech would eventually still come, he knows, because neither he, nor Drift wants their bout to be stopped short, no matter the damage they cause to each other. This one would run to its end, whatever that may be. Probably not leaving either of them grey, but even that is not out of question. The former gladiator silently rejoices in it, finds it familiar and by the look of it his opponent is no stranger to fighting till the bitter end either. 

It’s nothing personal, he already forms the answer to as yet unasked questions that will surely follow. Just a training bout. Just because they felt like it and followed that wish through. The klik he saw the white frame first, Sunstreaker knew with a certainty that they would do this. It was not the ridiculous amount of swords about the frame, no. Not the irritating smile that still aches deeply entrenched in memories. Not even the sure, confident way he held his perfectly formed, perfectly polished, shining-bright frame with. It was a kinship he felt unexplainable, like they had something in common, though he had no idea what. It was like seeing an echo of Side…

Sunstreaker snarled and shook his helm to shake the droplets of energon off. The cut on his brow stung, both his metal and his pride. He should have seen that coming, he should have blocked it, parried it, avoided it… but he was musing instead and it cost. He snarls in answer but at himself as well to snap out of this… _funk_ he had somehow gotten himself into, it was more and more often lately, but never in a fight, not till now… his left sword is torn from his grip, taking a few digits with it and pain registers the same way as it does in a fight – a mere datum, a notification he dismisses without thinking, acknowledging it that yes, it decreases his ability to fight effectively, he knows it and typically of him, he is not interested in it.

He was never much for odds and chances. He fights to win, no matter the odds, no matter the effectiveness percentages and whatever numbers others reduce a duel into. He pushes back his slighter opponent – there is strength in the slender frame, in that impossibly tiny waist he sneered at at first, he acknowledges it now, he just has more – taking the fight closer now that he has one blade only, pitting his brute strength against the other’s wiry one, so that it might still turn this bout to his way again. Because he is losing, not just because of his wholly inappropriate and highly importune musings, but because the other is…

… GOOD, that he is, there **is** strength in that slender, prim frame, there is depth in that easy smile, there is darkness below that pious façade and there is that trained, highly trained swordsmaster over all over that turmoil, to give it order, to give it an outlet, to give it an edge. And Sunstreaker is envious of that order, something he never had, never been taught, never acquired… his is brute strength, his is chaotic, creative, random and above all untamed. His is to never give up, no matter what it ends up with. He pushes now with all his might, his weight advantage, his brute force, even his anger makes the white frame totter back a few steps, before it looses that annoying control, before it causes him to falter and fail… and fall eventually and Sunstreaker is onto him snarling, tearing, losing the last vestiges of his never too strong control and punching into annoyingly prim and proper, waxed and shined white plating to tear it and rend it, dent it and end it, he forces his opponent down and under him, dominates him now, fury burning bright, though it is still not personal, just battle-lust…

…sharp, bright pain flashes across his vision, over his sensornet and Sunstreaker rears back up, an incredulous servo lifting to his neck where hot, pink energon splashes out in strong pulses, in rhythm with his spark as it beats fast… he is pushed back further and he is still frozen in shock of the nature of the attack from an opponent nearly beaten… but then, he never gives up either, he knew that, he felt that, it was the kinship he felt, it was why they fought…

… _he bit me_. It is still shocking to say it aloud in his processor, but as he glances back, vision clearing up and energon-bright fangs flash back from a snarling mouth, real, actual fangs, sharpened denta, real fangs, Decepticon fangs, not just for show and Sunstreaker suddenly aches to have such fangs so he can sink them into his opponent’s metal, it is an attack so barbaric, so primitive, so… so… so surprising that he must do it too. The wound is real, it is deep and jagged and nearly tore our his main energon line. 

After a medic has stopped his energon from spurting out, because he is weaker by the nanoklik and the white mech can push him back easily and he can put up no fight, what does he want now, to finish him? But the red of the Autobot badge shines from its white surroundings and there is a patch in black servos after the swords clattered out of them, discarded carelessly on the floor and he pushes the patch onto the bright, pulsing wound and its stasis-edges numb the bright pain and stem the flow and Sunstreaker concedes defeat. 

“I’m sorry, sorry, sorry, I don’t know what came over me, I swear I didn’t mean anything by it, I should…”

He should stop babbling, that’s what he should do. Sunstreaker grunts, but he is still too shocked to speak coherently and the white mech babbles on, nonsensical things in his opinion, since the wound is patched, his energon stays where it should be, his strength returns slowly and it was just a fight, so why is he so nervous, so apologetic, so… at fault?

“It was a good move.”

“What…?”

“It was a good move.” 

He doesn’t add that he wants fangs now so badly, it nearly burns. He never knew a mech with fangs before, not even in the Rings. It’s so primitive, so barbaric, so… animalistic, that nomech even thought of doing it. The mechanimals had fangs, some of them, the ones they fought with sometimes, but not the gladiators. What must it feel to touch one with his glossa? They are needle-sharp, so much he knows now and tear through metal like the finest blades. Does he bites himself sometimes?

“Yeah… I do…”

Huhh? He didn’t mean to ask that aloud. But the bemused voice that answers tell him that he did so indeed. Sunstreaker is annoyed. And a servo is still on his throat, frozen in the movement of slapping the static bandage onto the would-be fatal wound. It burns strangely where it touches and Sunstreaker becomes aware of the fact that a white, slender, red-gold-detailed, expensive wax-smelling frame perches on him too. Dripping some energon of his own, from wounds he opened on that annoyingly perfect frame. It is hot to the touch, like Rodimus sometimes feels, but it’s not like his open, questing flame, it’s like white-hot metal to the touch, smoldering instead of flames, melting…

… arousing too, he feels acutely where that white crotch straddles him, arousing with its sensuous touch, with its deadly grace, with its competing perfection and the smell of hot wax and expensive polish… almost like he touches himself, it feels like, they are of the same mould, not in form but in flavour, they are both danger personified, they are both survivors, they are both lowborn brutes, feared warriors, even if the other had that brutality honed to a perfect sword-edge. He feels it too, that white helm hesitantly nods to the side, long, elegant, pointed audials - that he wants to grip, to bend, to touch… perk back with confusion, well, at least he had stopped babbling.

He won’t make the first move, Sunstreaker learned through bitter lessons that it never pays out. Many before wanted his perfect frame while hating who and what he was. None has cared what he wanted, none aside from Side… but that’s a festering wound still and he shies away from it. He’s been alone too long – and not-alone even longer – but damn if he makes the first move even as he feels the interest in that frozen-white statue over him who stares with wide-blue optics and his mouth partly open, smeared with energon, his energon, a drop is forming at the tip of a fang and gathers to drop and Sunstreaker lifts up a servo, a digit-tip hesitantly and no, it’s not a first move, he thinks resolutely, it’s just interest…

… but a glossa dips out and sweeps over the fang and gathers up the energon before his digit could make it.

“It’s gross, I know…”

“What?”

Thin lips close stubbornly, hiding the fangs and Sunstreaker is as confused as he is disappointed. Servo lowers back down and he shrugs inwardly. So what if he is not interested after all. He has gotten used to it, the rejection, the distance, the sneers and the hate. So what if he has misread similarity to kinship, eagerness to fight to interest in him, the quick action to save him into something deeper. It’s probably none of those.

“The fangs. They’re… gross. Everymech thinks so. They’re a… throwback. I tried to file them down, but they grow back. I apologize for the wound.”

He’s babbling again and his field is nervous, hesitating, unsure. Like Sunstreaker’s usually.

“I want them. Fangs.” He clarifies with a grimace. He is not sure what made him reveal that sudden, unexplainable want. “Were you born with them?”

“Made. Not sure why. Nomech has them that I know.”

“So what?”

He shrugs helplessly, just as at loss to explain as Sunstreaker at most things. He is stiff and distant again. 

But he hadn’t moved off of Sunstreaker’s frame, nor had he thrown him off. They must be a strange tableau, dented, marked, dripping energon and frozen into a strange pose like statues.

Sunstreaker is resigned to end it there and then when the servo from his throat slides higher and leaves a burning track. It stops hesitantly at his mouth, then ever-so gently slides over the lips that somewhere along the way lost their sneer and fell slightly open. It tingles as the tip of a digit slides over his derma, tingles in a way he has learned means arousal, a rare thing for his since… since. Blue optics ask permission – for what he doesn’t know – and he speaks again.

“I’ve heard a lot about you…”

There it is. Sunstreaker tenses. The loathing, the hate, everything he cannot leave behind is about to come out now. His baggage forever - guilt and pain. 

“Nothing good I suppose.”

The white frame shifts and the blue gaze dips away.

“Nothing worse than what they say about me.”

“I doubt that.”

“Don’t.”

He is a former Decepticon, Sunstreaker knows. What else he is… well, a killer. Like Sunstreaker. They are a matching pair, right? One a traitor, one a betrayer. His laugh is bitter, bubbling up from his spark like poison, burning his intake like acid. The white mech doesn’t laugh. His helm nods forward, the slender audials cant backwards like in shame. Sunstreaker is suddenly tired of this who-is-guiltier game. He can’t shed who he is and what he’d done and nor can the other. No amount of finesse makes a former Decepticon less guilty of killing Autobots. Just like no amount of pain and excuses make him any less guilty of the same. But it’s inconsequential. Neither of them is here because of guilt or the past.

“So what? Do we wallow in it now, or…?”

“Or what?”

He won’t make the first move either, Sunstreaker realizes. They are perhaps even more alike than he’d thought it at first. His spike incredibly stirs in its sheath, under a panel that is connected ever so slightly to a white one. He tentatively, barely lift his hips, a movement almost not there… but the white mech feels it, his sensitive, highly tuned frame picks up the minute movement and blue optics snap to his, widen, stare… and his mouth falls open again, revealing the fangs. Like he is also tired to hide them, to hide himself. Sunstreaker licks his lips nearly automatically. Those fangs still fascinate him, he can’t help himself.

He leans forward slowly, almost like in a trance and the shift, the slide of polished, hot, slick metal does interesting things to Sunstreaker’s crotch. Fangs come closer, one is still energon-smeared, his energon, Sunstreaker notes, but it does not matter, it actually adds to the draw. He rises too, one servo automatically reaching out backwards to support himself and their lips meet halfway. Hesitantly, tentatively, but they touch and part, touch and part before he licks out to prod that fang to come closer for good and it does. There is nothing hesitant in their kiss though. Like a dam broken, their lips weld, their glossas fight and they explore each other’s mouth like empties. The fangs are sharp, yes and the tips prick easily and Drift feels like he’s still ashamed of them, like he wants to retreat… but Sunstreaker is having none of that. He takes control of the kiss and doesn’t let Drift go. 

He wants the swordsmech now, wants him with a passion he hasn’t felt since… Sideswipe. It still hurts to think of him, but he pushes the pain away and concentrates on the mech leaning above him. He wants Drift and surprisingly, miraculously, Drift wants him too. Maybe it’s just a moment, maybe it’s just a night, it doesn’t really matter. Sunstreaker has learned – through bitter and painful lessons – to live in the present and take what he’s handed. So he kisses and touches, rough servos sliding on waxed, bright metal, trying to discover slender plates and sensitive details. He has never been the most considerate lover, Sideswipe threw that at his helm the last time and it hurt, Primus how it hurt, and even then he is understandably rusty. The swordsmech’s slender digits with their nearly clawlike tips are much better at finding his spots. And find them he does with a gusto, hesitancy is all but gone and Sunstreaker finds himself moaning, which he hasn’t done for a long time… 

… and he feels something hot and slick between their frames, urgently rubbing on him and his spike reacts too, panel snapping open, his shaft hardening besides the other. He won’t let the swordsmech have a go at his valve, no, not yet, maybe not ever, that, for him is an intimacy not given at a first encounter. 

Drift tears his mouth away from his, panting, and yes his fangs dripping with fresh energon, Sunstreaker didn’t even feel them tearing the sensitive lining of his intake, but he must lick that energon from them anyhow. And so he does while their frames rub together, friction exciting sensors even without touching…

“I.. can’t…” Drift pants and moans between words and they are nearly unintelligible.

“Can’t what” He is not much better at coherency between licking the fangs and rubbing his shaft on him, smearing lubricant on white plating.

“Can’t… valve… sry…”

What? He realizes that the swordsmech’s valve panel is as resolutely closed as his own and Sunstreaker thinks he understands why. Or he can guess anyhow. They both have a past and they both have reasons. No, not just reasons. _Reasons_. Doesn’t matter exactly what.

“S okay…” he mumbles between nips at the lips and licks to the fangs. He reaches between them and grips their spikes together.

Drift’s groan is lost in his own as intense pleasure shots up through his sensornet. It is and it isn’t like when he self-services, because he must, because a frame has needs. He should know what his servo feels like, how to work his spike, how to get off quickly, so he can clean up and recharge. And not think of it longer than he must.

But this is different. Different not only because that hot spike thrusting beside his own, not only the frame that blankets his own despite of being slightly smaller and slighter, not only because of the mouth on his own and the fangs he keeps returning to… but because if he closes his optics and doesn’t smell the wax – Sideswipe would have never waxed if he didn’t do it for him – it feels like normal, it feels familiar, it feels like it is… not Sideswipe, but something they used to have. Some sort of closeness that goes beyond the pleasures of the frame, or somesuch, he is no shrink to be able to label it. Rung will do that in their next session, he is sure.

He snarls into their kiss as his movements become stronger, faster, jerkier. Drift’s fangs prick his mouth, his lips, his throat, not quite marking, but causing little jags of pleasure-pain to shot through him, elevating his arousal. Drift’s movements become faster even more, as he strains towards his overload and Sunstreaker is close too. When those fangs prick his audial he looses it. With a shout his grip becomes vice-like and he bows upwards, overload flashing through him in jagged bursts.

The weight is suddenly heavier on him as Drift sags forward after his own climax, panting deeply. Transfluid slicks his servo and paints their abdominals and Sunstreaker rises from his afterglow into the familiar revulsion from the mess. That has not changed, will never do. Still, it was all, sort of… nice.

Ratchet’s voice is like ice-water poured on their passion.

"We used to have one idiot on board. Now we have two. Primus save us.”


End file.
